“You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. He patted the hand on his sleeve. “You are one of those who must know all about it. The future Mrs Roding turned bright, laughing eyes on the major. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. If they become bad it is through inclination, not necessity. . . The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace. In seconds, they faced each other before the altar. “I missed the hour of your release,” he said, “but I was at the Vindicator Restaurant. “Shhh. At a turn in the road, he perceived Winifred looking anxiously towards him, and when she discovered him, she waved her hand. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation.
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